


Unistuck - The Bar

by Showeranon



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Collegestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Showeranon/pseuds/Showeranon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short scene about John and Dave going out to a jazz bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unistuck - The Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, ho, this is something neat. I like their dialogue! It's set in what I hope will not become a drab and boring "Collegestuck" AU. As such, I've asked anons of HSG to help me refine details for it. The note document doesn't stop from getting longer.
> 
> I'd really like to actually start somewhere, you know, develop some semblance of a plot? Something from move in day onward. But that all depends on how the story falls into place. It may end up being more of a clip show a la Metastuck.

"Dave, this place is a dive, but it's a gem of a dive." John said as he seated himself on the cracked leather cover of an old booth bench. He drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, running them across scratch marks that denoted over half a century of wear and tear. Across the table from him, his roommate, Dave, took a seat and adjusted himself on the ancient leather seat.

"Shit, it feels like I'm sitting on a taco salad." Dave said as he snaked a thick leather wallet from the back of his jeans, jamming it into his front pocket before he finally stopped fidgeting.

"I wouldn't expect much from this place, at least in terms of hospitality or decor," John glanced around the room. Fairly typical setup for a small bar: A counter with stools surrounded by booths, a stage at the back of the dimly lit main room, and a few tables crowding the center of the floor. What was the place called again... Elmore's Basement? That sounded about right. There were a good two dozen people here tonight, idly chatting over European beers and platters of Buffalo wings, and the walls were covered in posters of classic metal and hard rock bands wherever the drywall wasn't flaking away, "Though I'll give it to you in terms of atmosphere."

"See, the thing is," Dave began, accepting the approach of a waitress who handed them a pair of small menus and a program for tonight's show, "I chose this place out of my appreciation for the nitty-gritty and the very shitty, and though this place is sincerely incredible in many regards, you do have to remember my motives in picking the venue. Strider always aims to please." He said. Dave then attempted to thumb through the single page of the menu for a few moments and look thoughtful. 

"Didn't help that you wouldn't listen to a damn thing that I proposed. Sure, B-Dubs isn't nearly as 'atmospheric', but I kind of feel like if I piss off the bartender here he'll take me out back and literally grill me." John said with an askance look to the grizzly looking man behind the counter. Though not particularly tall, he was a husky customer who boasted a rugged strawberry blonde chin strap and biceps the size of a typical man's thighs. 

"Your fear of success drives you into the ground again. Also, you've just got shit taste." Dave said as he grabbed a glass of water from the end of the table. He placed drink orders for the both of them as John stared down his roommate. 

"Oh hey, look at this," John said as he raised an expressive single digit, "I'm flipping you off! My finger's moving all on its own. Ain't that the darndest thing!" He dropped his hand and grabbed for the program, turning it over a few times before speaking, "But seriously, this place is pretty fantastic.’Sides, who doesn't like jazz?" John asked, grabbing his now present Mountain Dew and taking a swig.

"Hardcore metalheads, goth kids, terrible people who lack taste and a soul..." Dave said as he counted off the qualities on his fingers. John cracked a grin as his companion pantomimed a pair of stubby horns protruding from above his sunglasses.

"Quit taking pot shots at Karkat. He can't help his condition."

"Oh, Egbert. You know me so well."

"Yeah. I think it's terminal, too," John looked back at the program. He recognized most of the songs on the list; a lifetime of piano training imparts one with a comprehensive knowledge of the classics, though John figured that even for a small-time act they could have picked some tunes that more people would recognize, "Could use some more Gershwin, if you ask me." He said as he dismissed the program, taking another drink. Dave chortled.

"Your unfathomable cocklust for and aspiration to follow in the footsteps of gay Jewish pianists in unsurpassed in this and any other instance of reality running in tandem with ours. You are simply the best there is." He said before indulging his cherry Coke.

"Oh fuck off, Feinstein's great. And George was a ladies man. Get learned with your books and shit." John said with a dismissive tone.

"You say that now." Dave responded. The two locked eyes.

"2Pac loved the cock." A hit to the veritable rap Jesus. That would sting.

"Steve Perry sodomizes dogs." Ooo, right in the classic rock.

"Q-Tip solicits transvestite hookers." And a hit to the leader of the Tribe. What an insult.

"Dennis DeYoung made scat sex tapes." Oh my, debasement one of the kings of prog? This called for the big guns.

"GZA's collaborating with Adele on her next album." John said with as straight a face as he could manage. Dave's expression changed from pensive to angry disbelief.

"Fuck you." He said without a hint of emotion.

"You wish," John quipped back, "Any idea who's playing?" Dave grabbed the program and scanned their poor choice in typeface for a second.

"They're called 'The Midnight Crew'. Never heard of 'em, so they must be local," Dave said, "Looks like a quartet. Rhythm featuring a tenor." John arched his back and stretched his lanky arms over the length of the booth's back.

"Hope they're good. Anything's better than listening that pissing around we call lab band." 

"Or that pile of prog you call Arachnophobia." Dave said with an invisible smirk. 

"We're the best, end of discussion." John said with a heavy sigh.

"You all suck. Hard. Especially Vriska. And you know it." Dave said while prodding John's airspace with his straw. John threw up the hand.

"Not having this conversation." Dave rolled his eyes behind his shades.

"Still need me to master that EP?" He asked. John rested his head on his hands and turned to lean back against the wall, lengthwise with the booth.

"Yeah, sure. Drop by the MD on... Thursday at, like, six? We've got a mod open from like four 'til late." 

"Sweet thing." Dave slumped against the back of the booth, wondering why his platter of wings was taking so long to show up. Subdued applause, as though for a familiar act, snapped him out of his reverie, "Oh, hey. They're on." Dave said, craning his neck around the side of the booth. John glanced up at the stage, giving the quartet a once-over as they got themselves in place and started tuning.

"Hmm..." John mumbled as he rubbed his chin.

"What?"

"That drummer... He's familiar."

"Maybe it was one of the dudes you brought home last night." Dave teased.

"No, that guy wasn't so short. And he called and said that he'd be gone until next week. I hope you don't mind if I bring home a few different guys than what you're used to." 

"Just be sure to tell 'em that I like it when they address me by my fursona," Dave replied, now also examining the men on stage. He snapped back to John, arms thrown forward as if to frame his statement, "I got it."

"What?"

"That guy at the piano? Totally my economic professor." Dave said. John looked back and forth between Dave and the stage, eventually settling his eyes on the drummer.

"I think the short guy behind the drum kit teaches my Intro to Chemistry class." John said. Dave snorted.

"Small world."

Up on stage, the Midnight Crew had just finished humoring the crowd. They all gripped their instruments and awaited the cue of their band leader, Spades Slick. Just as he was about to strike the first chord, Slick noticed an arm clad in red sleeve poking over the top of one of the booths. It was waving back and forth, a lit Zippo clasped in between its fingers. It took Slick a moment to recognize who the arm belonged to. He broke the silence with shaky fist to the keyboard, startling the audience and causing his bandmates to throw him dirty looks.

"Is that the kid from my Econ 101..." Slick muttered, staring at the booth. 

"Shit, I love this part. Don't stop." Dave catcalled from his spot in the crowd. Slick pinched his hard carapacian brow and sighed. He had a bad feeling about this show.


End file.
